Piety and Parm
By Sam Clover
They said she
crazy, but they were wrong. She knew in her heart how completely and utterly
wrong they were.
her knees. Tears stung at the corners of her eyes, glittering in the flickering
candlelight as she sucked in a steadying breath. It felt like there should be
words, but she had no scripture. No one had come before, there was no prophet,
All she had was
this sad little limp slice of pizza on a soggy paper plate. It sat on the floor
before her. Quiet. Still. But alive. It had to be, because there it sat for
three weeks, untouched by the rats and insects.
It hadn’t even cooled. The cheese on top was marbled and toasty. The crust was
dusted with garlic and parm with just enough char around the edges to preserve
that amazing warm scent that seemed to follow her wherever she went.
One day, she
it would speak to her. One day she would learn its secrets. Until then, she
would do everything within her power to appease it, and though praying hadn’t
worked. Singing to it hadn’t worked either, she had made a decision earlier
that day. Like the beginnings of all great religions, this one would need to be
built on blood.
She worried her
lip as her gaze drifted across the attic, to where her older brother was bound
to a chair. A greasy bit of duct tape secured over his mouth, and his wide,
terrified eyes glistened in the flickering light, much like hers did, but
without the hope. Without the reverence.
pizza up in her hands. A small, sad smile flitted across her weary face and she
rose to wander over to him.
Once upon a time
she might’ve pitied him. She might’ve felt empathy. But after three weeks of
his taunting, three weeks of being called a nutjob, being called a psychopath?
Because she dared be pious in a world that feared the inexplicable? No, it was
his own doing that now her love for him was as cold as the great pizza was hot.
She drew her
knife. She set the greasy paper plate upon his lap so his heathen blood could
shower it, then she pressed the blade to his throat.
A groan sounded.
Behind her. Rebecca would have ignored it, but it came with a powerful cheesy
smell. She could feel heat radiating over her back.
stared into her brother’s frantic eyes, and then slowly, she turned to look.
A great, massive
slice loomed over her. Melted cheese dripped with grease. Bits of Italian
sausage and Pepperoni peeked out from beneath, and in that parm-dusted crust,
she saw eternity staring back.
god spoke. “You mustn’t kill.”
caught in her throat. For the longest time she just stared. She was right. Her
belief was true, and because of her faith, it revealed itself. But...
She had been
cold. So without another moment lost, she drove the blade in and felt her
brother’s muffled screams die.
Sam Clover is a lover
writer of horror, usually with LGBT+ and romantic themes... and occasionally
pirates. She lives in Canada where she
spends her time writing scary smut and haunting discord and twitter!